"Who?"
"Florence. Your daughter."
"What about her?"
All this vaudeville team business, mind you, as if we were bellowing at each other across the street. All round the room you could see old gentlemen shooting out of their chairs like rockets and dashing off at a gallop to write to the governing board about it. Thousands of waiters had appeared from nowhere, and were hanging about, dusting table legs. If ever a business wanted to be discussed privately, this seemed to me to be it. And it was just about as private as a conversation through megaphones in Longacre Square.
"Didn't she write to you?"
"I got a letter from her. I tore it up. I didn't read it."
Pleasant, was it not? It was not. I began to understand what a shipwrecked sailor must feel when he finds there's something gone wrong with the life belt.
I thought I might as well get to the point and get it over.
"Edwin's going to marry a palmist," I said.
"Who the devil's Harry?"